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Seducing teens with perverted ideals and empty promises –
They throw themselves into the grinder for love of you.
When they cry “Please kill me”, they see the truth all too late – you were never fighting “for us”.
Their families turn to charity to numb the pain, and your influence runs so deep that they still don’t see you laughing.
They don’t see you.

The gears spit out their chewed up husks over the same flag mothers wipe their eyes on.
Tears mix with oil and blood.

Track Name: Publicitaire

With the Age of Information has come the death of interest.
The loss of prerequisite challenges to gain knowledge causes an equal lack of passion,
No one wants to specialise in anything now they can do a tiny bit of everything.
What we desire no longer relates to what we need (that is if it ever did).
We are shaped to strive for the impossible by the deft hands of media priests:
To resign ourselves to imagined inferiority;
To buy “products” rather than sustain ourselves.

Track Name: Exchange Rates Are Exactly What They Used To Be

Everything of value is a commodity – even ideas.
How to attain fulfillment without becoming saleable?
Our culture forbids it.
Our people forbid it.

Give away your work freely to those who want it and it will attain worth in their eyes; demand will be created, grow, and someone will find a way to translate it to currency.
Is there no escape?
I want to love something that doesn’t have a price;
Something other than sadness.
Something other than despair.

Track Name: Tired Of Being Tired?

As I grow more jaded
The calluses extend to my perception.
Mind narrows, closes – blinkered by inhibitions
And carved to fit the shape of someone else's hands.

All my thoughts come vacuum-sealed.
I've forgotten how to feel.
Living never seemed less real.
I've forgotten how to feel.

It grows so hard to care
Or to know whether anything that
Crosses my mind
Isn't an affectation
Like everything else.

Track Name: Interlude

Yearning for a love and beauty that's always just out of reach

A prison without walls

Track Name: Glitter Is Made Of Plastic

The tracks won’t break.
The tracks won’t break.
Soft fingertips are not the correct tool for the job;
Bleed quickly, nails peel back, ineffectual.
When the dark comes, will our sparks converge or sputter out - blind in the absence of illuminating amalgam?

Beyond the steel lines, the air is ink.
One cannot swim, cannot see.
One can only drown…
Afraid, weak.
Hold on to each other.
Take my hand.
Coalesce.

Track Name: We Are All Broken Circuits

Sanctioned format restrains the potential for direct expression.
Nothing truly original is born within established frameworks – just as a player, however skilled, never reinvents their game.

To redefine the context, or the very perception of context, is the key:
To release spontaneity and throw us into really new territory – a realm in which we will all be amateurs; where we will learn the joy of unmediated play, and actual progression.

All “art” is dead, all “experience” superficial in our comatose state. Art and life must rejoin to wake within us.
Only their end – diffusion into the everyday – will restore them to the ālaya of immanent presence.

Track Name: Proto-Post-[Axiom]

This is not a punk song,
This is not an old song,
This is not a new song –
This isn't a song at all.

This is what must suffice – creating the new from the old.
This is my guiding light – a vestige of warmth in the cold.

Half-formed, clumsy, earnest.
Context will shift with paradigm.

This is a call for supersession from within the reign of the past.
This is our only platform, for the other does not yet exist.

Track Name: Bubblegum Baby

“Perfection” is our formaldehyde – “staying young” our denial of mortality: preserving image as static currency.
Fetishisation of youth/”beauty” is no fluke, but a Fantasy Trap: the reflexive attempt of a foredoomed system to delay its collapse.

Ensnared, we wallow in imagined stasis:
Obsessed with preserving life, we forget to ever live it,
Perfectly functional objects for a purely functional world.

Flesh withers inside a candy casing.
Ignored time disappears in the blink of an eye.

Having invested all in the superficial, there is no energy left for the internal –image becomes our only purpose.